


Horsemaster

by Lasgalendil



Series: Starlight and Song [5]
Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/F, Interspecies, Interspecies Relationship(s), Interspecies Romance, Interspecies Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, Same-Sex Marriage, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-13
Updated: 2014-12-13
Packaged: 2018-03-01 07:42:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2765165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lasgalendil/pseuds/Lasgalendil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elf loves Dwarf.<br/>Dwarf loves Elf.</p><p>In which Éomer-king really wishes he hadn't seen.<br/>…and in which Faramir, son of Denethor, really, really wishes he and his wife could find some privacy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Horsemaster

“Forgive me, I—am drunk. And have entirely forgotten what it is I wished to speak of. Peace, Master Dwarf. I am sorry to disturb.”

* * *

 Thoughts not coherent. Already bloody drunk. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

 Wine. Must have. Ale. Even better.

 Elf. Dwarf.

...Elf and Dwarf.

[Elf in Dwarf’s bed. Elf under Dwarf’s cloak. Elf’s feet bare, naked arse in the air, head down, sucking, Dwarf grunting furiously…]

Elf and Dwarf…fucking.

…Helm’s Hammer.

[FUCK.]

…no, no. Best not think on it.

[Too late.]

Oh, Helm’s hairy scrotum. Fram’s sagging left ball. More wine. More wine. All the wine ever.

Elf and Dwarf fucking. Same bed. Same cloak.

…Elf and Dwarf _married._

FUCK.

[No, no you daft sod. I said TRY NOT TO THINK OF IT.]

Bloody, fucking, fuck.

I am a warrior. Known shield brothers, seen shield brothers—seen Theodred— sneak off to touch self or be sucked or shag. But same men go off to war, kill men, kill orcs, burn villages, rape women, pillage and plunder then come home to take fat wives and sow little ones and take up the plow like geldings. Thought nothing of it. Strange circumstances of war. Men do strange things. What of it?

…But Elf? …with Dwarf? In peacetime? When every maiden of Rohan and Gondor chasing after him, wanting him up skirt—?

How the bloody hell?

…and why?

Elf and Dwarf _fucking_. Elf and Dwarf—oh, Felarof’s flopping cock!-- _ELF AND DWARF MARRIED--?!_  And Elf? Elf not known to be discrete. Not after that performance at dinner, had half the men hard, all the women wet…

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

[Damn, you, man! I said not to think on it!]

Soldiers will not be happy.

Nobles will not be happy.

Gondor will not be happy.

[...At least Dwarf is happy.]

[DAMN YOU MAN, I SAID NOT TO THINK ON IT!]

…bloody, fucking hell. Does Aragorn even know? And not tell? Having laugh at my expense?

Oh, bloody fucking hell.

* * *

 For the second time tonight, I walk into a tent without knocking.

[You would think I would learn my lesson.]

My sister, it seems, is also not happy to see me.

“Brother!” she cries.

“Peace, good sister. Man of Gondor,” I add as an afterthought, helping myself to their table. “By all means, ignore me, and continue to tame your ‘wild stallion’.”

My sister. My good sister. Even now naked astride him she refuses to flush. “Brother, you have found me in a state no sister wishes her brother to see.”

“Aye, but seen I have, and forgive me, sweet sister, but I have known you naked since the day you were born, and since my manhood have found many tits more comely than yours, and arses more shapely. Now, if it please you, you may sit there and continue to fuck your husband, and I will sit here and continue to drink.”

“Dear brother, it does please me, but I find in your presence my husband is no longer fuckable, and you are already drunk.”

[The Denethorson makes a sound best befitting a dying rabbit.]

“Yet mean I to be drunker than any man has been before.”

“Aye,” she stands, and comes to sit beside me without shame. “And meant I to be fucked more than any woman before, but alas, I cannot. Not this night. To what do we drink?”

[The Denethorson makes a sound the like I have never heard.]

“To drink? To fucking? To diplomatic nightmares?”

…To hairless Elf arses and hairy Dwarf beards? To hard Dwarven cocks, and soft Elven kisses?

[Damn, you, man! I SAID NOT TO THINK ON IT.]

I think these things. I do not say them. But the thoughts do make me laugh. Loudly, and fey.

My sister—I must forgive her—is not amused.

“Is this about your child bride again?”

“This? No. Child bride will be easy. Buy her pretty pony. Very pretty pony. And a cat. Kittens. Flowers. Dresses. Books…fuck, whatever.” I wave my hand. Damn, but I am drunk! And not yet drunk enough! “Get her well and bloody drunk before fucking, and get her well and bloody wet before inside.” And hopefully put baby inside her within the first month then ship her back to Gondor. See her maybe once, twice a year. Bloody Edoras isn’t meant for a lady like that. Bloody Eomer isn’t meant for a lady like that.

[The Denethorson, it must be said, has assembled his night clothes. And is a shade of red most uncomely for one still sober.]

“Come, man!” I shout, slamming down another tankard. “I am the King of Rohan and you have just fucked your bride my sister! Is she not beautiful? Drink!”

“You must excuse me, Éomer-King,” he stammers. “But I have known the Lady Lothíriel since she was a young girl—“

“And I have known my sweet sister since she was but a suckling babe! Does this stop you from fucking her?” I pour. “Now drink!”

He does.

“If this isn’t about your child bride—“ she begins.

“Enough, damn you!” I shout.

“Then what?” My sister snarls crossly. “Must I remind you, dear brother, that this is my tent you sit in, my wine you drink, and my husband and warm bed you keep me from?”

“Do you know? Did you know? Is that why Lord Aragorn and not— _him_? When every other maiden old enough to bind her breasts is—“

“Oh, yes, brother,” she says coldly. “Please, do interrupt my fucking to speak of the man who spurned me in front of the husband who moments ago was hard from our love-making.”

[The Denethorson spews wine, turns color never seen before. Most unsightly.]

“Peace, woman!” I raise my hands. “I only meant—did you know? That bloody Elf—“

“The Lady Arwen,” My sister continues, “has been most gracious—“

“Oh, peace. Fuck. To bloody hell with the Lady Arwen! My she grow old and fat and bear many children to suckle at sagging tits! I meant your bloody, sodding, ridiculous Elf!”

[The Denethorson looks near to faint.]

“The Lord Legolas?” She teases, now somewhat amused. “Who—must I say—has excellent hearing, and will no doubt by morning have spread the news of your rudeness towards Gondorian nobility wide throughout the camp, if indeed they have not heard it for themselves already?”

…Oh, but she is pleased with herself!

I drink. “Oh, sod him. Sod this. Sod you.”

My sister is silent. Grinning. I hate her.

“Sod you. You knew. You knew and didn’t tell me.”

“Knew what, dear brother?”

“Your Elf. Your sodding Elf. Your sodding, lovelorn, pining, ridiculous Elf whom you have pitied. Well, he has at last found his 'lady love'.”

Her eyes light up. So she did know, and takes it a sight better than I.  “I am pleased to hear it! Come, husband, kiss me!”

The Denethorson doesn’t move. Indeed he has poured half his tankard down his tunic.

“I—what?”

“Oh, did you not know?” She says, eyes shining, stealing a kiss. “He had fallen in love with a Gondorian maid. Been mad with love, pining for her.”

…Ah. So she didn’t know. Thinks his 'lady-love' is…his _lady-love_. Shit.

[I SAID DO NOT THINK ON IT, DAMN YOU.]

“I was told he longed only for the sea,” the Denethorson frowns.

Truth be told, I had heard the same. Thought it strange Elvish nonsense. “Aye, and I had heard the same. Yet here it is.”

“Idiots,” she chides us. “He ached with love. Any woman would see it. When I told him the tale of Mithrellas he wept, and sighed with longing—“

[Who the bloody fuck is Mithrellas? Drunk. Much Drunk. Very drunk.]

“That was poorly done,” the Denethorson says, almost curtly, as one would correct a small child. “He is an Elf, Lady. A _Wood-Elf_. It is like he knew her, if not already the tale. And this? This you should not celebrate. This is not happy news.”

“That an Elf—a _friend_ —should find love?”

“It is no small thing for an Elf to love a mortal. I have—forgive me, I mean not to seem scornful or proud, to be learned and lord it over you—but I have lived in the city of the Men of Numeanor, I have spoken the Noble and Highest Tongues. I have read these stories, the heritage of my people, and happy they are not. I know the price. I have seen the pain in the Lady Arwen’s eyes and those of her kin. No, this thing which you celebrate—you should not. And indeed if it is not too late, seek to forestall, and send him over the Sea...”

Over the Sea? More like up the arse.

[DAMN YOU, MAN, I SAID NOT TO THINK OF IT!]

If my sister is astonished at my dark laughter, she pretends otherwise.

“Oh, it is indeed too late for that,” I take another draught.

“How do you mean, brother?”

“…married.”

[Is it…possible? It sounds not so strange to say as I had thought.]

[After all, Eomer-King, is it really so damned different?]

She is astonished. “How do you mean, married?”

“I mean married, you bloody woman. Cloaked and fucked and wed. I have seen it with my own eyes!”

 [I BLOODY FUCKING TOLD YOU NOT TO BLOODY FUCKING THINK OF IT.]

“Elf weddings are not as officious as ours,” The Denethorson stammers. “From what I have read, they require no witness or permission. A simple exchange of rings and vows between the lovers themselves…and…and,”

“Fucking?” My sister chides. She, at least, will have heard of marriage by cloak. Old custom. Common in war. Not forgotten.

[He flushes. No wonder she is not yet with child.]

“This must be rectified,” The Denethorson says. “At once. You must explain—it is like he did not know—the girl’s family will not be pleased. They may demand—“

Aye. I know what bloody Gondor might demand. What their bloody Gods might demand. But I have thought it, and I have said it, and I will not be deterred. They are blood brothers, shield brothers, warriors, and friends of my people. They have shared a bed and the protection of a cloak. By the laws of my people, they are wed. And if they will not be welcomed elsewhere, they will at least be welcomed here.  Fuck everything.

[Even Elves.]

[OH, SOD THIS. THINK ON IT IF YOU MUST.]

“Like I said, married.”

“Elf custom and law are not recognized, not in Gondor,” the Denethorson repeats. “To do such a thing is a crime.”

“That is ridiculous,” my sister states. “May a woman not fuck who she pleases?”

“We are not so…permissive,” the Denethorson says delicately. “A woman is her father’s property until wed, and if he has stolen—”

“Ridiculous,” my sister snorts. “How can one steal what would gladly be given?”

“Oh, believe me, Denethorson, sweet sister. There is no worry of this. They are married. Married by cloak."

“But the laws of Gondor—“

“Are the laws of bloody Gondor. But we’re not in bloody Gondor. We’re in bloody Rohan, and I am the King of bloody Rohan, if it please you, and if it please you not, Son of Denethor, yet I am the bloody, fucking King of bloody, fucking Rohan. And if I say they are cloaked and fucked and wed, then they are bloody cloaked and fucked and wed, damn you! Bloody hell. More wine!”

My sister—bless her—does not run to fetch some. But the Denethorson scampers.

“…and if the Lords of Gondor—“ she begins.

“Helm’s hairy balls!” I roar. “If the sodding, prudish Lords of Gondor take issue, then they may kiss my arse, and be reminded who it was who saved them from the bloody Corsairs, and what it has cost us. Bloody, fucking, fuck.”

[MUST YOU THINK ON IT?]

“You swore them fealty, and I have—my husband must forgive me—married one of these sodding, prudish Lords of Gondor and you are pledged to the daughter of another.”

“Then by all means, dear sister, divorce him, and I will break my vows. The bloody Lords of Gondor will be pissed, the bloody Lords of the Eorlingas will be pissed, the bloody King will be pissed, the bloody Gods themselves will be pissed, we will be the laughingstock of everyone from Arnor to Umbar…but, but they are wed. If I needs must, then I will piss at them all.”

She is startled. “Think you they will take such offense?”

“Bloody hell, woman! Think I so? Know I so! Yes. I have ridden far, farther than you—no, peace, sweet sister. I mean you no insult,” I say, gently, for she is a warrior if I have ever known one. “But I have seen men hanged, drowned, dragged, drawn and quartered for these things and called justice. I have seen men tear each other apart—sworn shield brothers who they have known well—when things oft done in secret come at last to the sun.”

She has grown quiet. Troubled. “That a man—or Elf—should love a woman? Is that so strange a thing?”

“Nay, lady,” I take her hand. “That a man—or Elf—should [is it? Can it be?] love a man.”

She is astonished. So she had not heard. Did not know. Perhaps had not known such a thing were possible. I certainly had not, indeed until the words were spoken aloud by own mouth.

...How to say gently? Kindly? How not to frighten? “Your Gondorian maid is no maid,” I explain as she draws back her hand.

“…a, a Lord, then?” She stammers, but cannot hide her distaste. Or disgust. Or doubt.

“Nay," I take a long draught. Sigh. "A Dwarf.”

And before I can speak further, there is a sound of the Denethorson cursing and dropping a cask of wine.

We sit in silence.

[…If silence you might call it while the Denethorson retches.]

“And to think,” my sister says distantly, for the first time covering herself with her hair, “not an hour ago I was fucking my husband and had not a care in the world.”

 


End file.
